Is it the drugs or is it me?
The walking trees come from a tram
the size of several hundred dogs.
A morphine glade. (Unscheduled stop.)
Three prize-laden upcoming poets return with second collections driving poetry into the digital future and the human past.
The path up to Pendle. The sleeping beast. The purple skies.
Folk tell of witches burned or branded or drowned or hung
Craig Brown finds rhymes for Guru-Murthy and Rees-Mogg.
"The world you quit / Is staying here, so say goodbye to it."
“It’s nothing to us”, you might shrug...
Two of her little pictures grace my walls:
Suprematism in a special sense,
With all the usual bits and pieces flying
Through space, but carrying a pastel-tinged
“Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers were sexy, but only with their feet, like butterflies.” – Clive James